Youthful Days
by Ryuuza
Summary: [TezuFuji] Tezuka may not always understand Fuji, but there are some things he knows for sure.


_Author's Note:_ Very different from my usual FujiRyo. :x I blame the sadistic friends I've been hanging around. But I actually like TezuFuji in some respects, so I played nicely with them.

_Disclaimer:_ Not mine.

_Warnings:_ boy x boy, het

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**Youthful Days  
**by Ryuuza

Tezuka always knew Fuji would come back to him. It isn't arrogance, because few could accuse the quiet boy of such a fault, but rather something almost akin to—well, destiny, if he believed in such a thing. There has always been something between them, though, inexplicable and inextricable, and both of them fully aware of that fact. Which is why, Tezuka supposes, that he's never been stirred to jealousy by Fuji's other relationships, never with the girls who crowd around the courts as they practice because he has far higher standards, but with Himiko from the photography club, with Chitose from the student council, even with a few girls from other schools. At times, Fuji has even been deliberately provocative with Taka, whose responses are flustered and stammering, and Saeki and, of course, Echizen.

Tezuka is aware, somewhere between his conscious and sub-conscious mind, like the hazy world without his glasses, that Fuji is interested in Echizen's tennis, just as Tezuka is. But Fuji is also interested in eliciting a response from Tezuka, careless in the way that he is, toying with feelings that shouldn't be his to toy with. His eyes are only half on Echizen, more often than not trained on Tezuka, as if challenging him, defying him, or maybe defying fate, trying to prove that he can escape the inescapable. Sometimes, then, Tezuka is angry, angry with Fuji for his carelessness, for his casual smiles and callous words, and he wants to tell Fuji to _stop_.

He doesn't because he hasn't the right.

He's never jealous though, because he always knew what Fuji wanted, knew well enough to never give in, and he knows it drives the other boy mad, behind his endless smiles and sky-blue eyes.

It ends, thankfully, before he has to pull Fuji aside to tell him—not to stop, because he really doesn't have the right, but to at least ease up during school and club hours, because though Tezuka might tolerate Fuji's antics up to a point, he will _not_ let it interfere with his plans for Echizen. The boy is destined, almost as they are, but for a far greater fate, and Tezuka won't let Fuji's pettiness get in the way.

For a while, Fuji isn't with anyone, isn't smiling and stroking a shoulder, flirting with the sharpest eyes Tezuka has ever known, in all senses of the word, and things are almost normal. Fuji watches him constantly, as he ever does, but he keeps his distance, still determined to avoid the inevitable. Tezuka allows it because he knows the outcome, the knowledge settling on him like the certainty of nights passed under the stars and days spent under the sun—truths too real and concrete to ever dispute.

So he runs the club as he does and in his subtle way tries to help Echizen recover from whatever emotional trauma his upperclassman afflicted him with. The boy is surprisingly resilient, Tezuka discovers, for all that he is now fifteen and well into his years of puberty. Tennis is still his goal, his drive, his life and blood, but now he spares the occasional glance around him, taking in people other than his opponent, and lets his attention fall where it may.

There has always been someone behind him, trying desperately to make her way to stand by his side, someone who wants to support him, protect him, love him and he never saw her. Tezuka, however, has never been as blind as the younger boy, though he is far from being as perceptive as Fuji. He thinks it will be good for Echizen, a little more humanity to condition his competitiveness, a little bit of grounding in a field of dreams, and so he finds himself speaking to her after practice, awkward in a way he hasn't felt in years, and asks her if she'd like to spend some more time with the boy wonder.

Her eyes widen, an easy blush stealing across her features, and her hair—still long, though braids forsaken for a while now—ripples along her back as she fidgets and stares at him nervously. Her response is affirmative, as he knows it had to be, and so he tells her he'll help her arrange it and then, belatedly, adds that it is for the sake of Echizen's social and mental well-being.

He tells Echizen the same thing, the boy adopting his usual scowl before Tezuka even finishes his first sentence and he can see Fuji a few meters away, smiling in a manner that can be interpreted as curious if one doesn't know better. Tezuka knows better; Fuji is not curious, he is outright _amused_, as if fully aware of Tezuka's plans and finding the absurdity of them frankly hilarious. He stoically ignores the boy in the fringes of his vision and looks down at Echizen, informing him in no uncertain terms that he has very little choice, and backs up his orders with Inui's data.

Echizen gives in, reluctantly, but he usually does and Tezuka doesn't miss the almost speculative look in his eyes; he knows Fuji doesn't either and it makes him want to take a deep breath and expel it in a terse warning to not interfere, but Fuji is out of the locker rooms before he is even changed, and the opportunity is lost. Or so he thinks before he closes and locks the clubhouse door behind him and turns around to encounter the boy who's made every attempt at running away, waiting for him.

Fuji's smile is, for once, calm and serene with absolute no meaning hidden behind the curves of his lips or the creases of his eyes. He is relaxed in a way Tezuka has not seen for a long time, so long that he doesn't remember the last time, and he finds that he is drawn to that smile, that face, that boy—but it is no surprise to him; he knew all along that this is what is meant between them, and what's meant to be and meant to happen, will.

Inexorable, inevitable, and Tezuka doesn't believe in fate or destiny but maybe he believes that certain things just belong certain ways, in certain places. He looks at Fuji without a word, because he was never one for words and Fuji understands that, knows it better than anyone else in the world because Fuji's the exact opposite, the exact same—using words often, carelessly, meaning entirely different things that are never said.

It's that silence, that same eloquence, which pulls them together.

"Echizen will do well," Fuji says, the same calm to him as before.

Tezuka hears the words and they mean exactly what's been said and he nods, briefly dipping his head, partly in agreement and partly in deference to the fact that Fuji is being unusually straightforward with him—no provocative mentions of "Ryoma" or evasive comments about the weather. It has been a while, but Tezuka thinks he understands at last and as he walks toward the bus station, Fuji falls in step beside him.

"Saa," murmurs his companion after a brief interlude of comfortable silence, "the weather's been nice, hasn't it?"

Tezuka remembers that Fuji's home is in the opposite direction and thinks that maybe he'll never quite understand the other boy. Fuji smiles at him and he looks away. Still, perhaps that is all right in the end, because it is inescapable, isn't it?

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